


Dean and the Derby Girl

by CausticCupcake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CausticCupcake/pseuds/CausticCupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean meets a gorgeous derby-girl in a dive bar and quickly finds out he's up against his greatest challenge--himself, in girl form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jesus, had it been a long day, Dean thought, raising a hand and flagging the waitress down. Nothing a little whiskey couldn’t fix, and with any luck an anonymous fuck, too. The bar was a few doors down for the motel he was crashing in for the night. He wasn’t used to not having Sammy with him, but he was home sick with some sort of flu. And by home, he meant Bobby’s. God bless Bobby. Dean reminded himself to have a drink in his honor.  
He let his eyes wander, checking out the place he’d be calling home for the next--he glanced at his phone for the time—when did the bars close here? It was like every other “Irish pub” he’d been to before. Wooden paneling covering practically every surface, some kind of Irish band playing in the background. A group of young punks sat by the door, making too much noise—but hell, they were young. Why the fuck not enjoy it?  
The waitress made her way over to Dean. A drop-dead blonde number with a fantastic pair of legs, and an ass you could bounce a nickel off of. She had cherry red lipstick on and boy did she know how to pout those lips. Dean shifted in his stool, trying to readjust himself in his pants without drawing too much attention. She flashed him a gorgeous smile and winked.  
“What’ll it be tonight?” She asked, leaning across the bar and flashing some pretty impressive cleavage.  
“Whiskey. Tight.” He said, giving her his cheesiest, most charismatic, please-let-me-stick-it-in-you smile.  
“You got it, cowboy.” She said.  
Cowboy? Dean didn’t know that he was feeling that. As she shifted her weight to push herself off the counter, Dean glimpsed a tattoo on her left breast. “Carl” it read. Fuck that. He wasn’t looking for that kind of fling.  
She set the drink on the counter with her phone number written on the napkin—  
Dawn—I’m off in a few hours 555-7389  
Dean took a sip of the whiskey and made a face. It was weaker than what he was used to. But it would get the job done, right?  
The bell at the door rang and there was a commotion in the front—were those skates he was hearing? The bar was suddenly in an uproar, hooting and hollering. Suddenly a girl in roller skates was practically in Dean’s lap.  
“Sorry, Champ.” She said, touching his shoulder and pushing herself forward on her skate.  
“Dawn!” She called.  
The waitress lit up and headed over to the girl. While her back was turned, Dean took a second to give her the once over. She was a little overweight, but he found it sexy. He noticed she was wearing a neon pink helmet and matching elbow and wristguards. Her ass—and it was a nice ass, was currently residing in a pair of leopard hot pants which she wore over purple leggings and fishnets. His paints were growing tight again. She was so not his usual type, but there was something about her…  
The waitress came over and gave the girl a hug over the counter.  
“We made pre-lims!” The girl exclaimed, planting a kiss on the bartender’s cheek.  
Dean wouldn’t have minded a kiss…  
“We go to play-offs on Saturday!”  
The waitress squealed and high-fived the girl. “That’s so great! Congratulations!”  
“Will you be able to come?” The girl asked, hopeful.  
I can come if you like, Dean thought, snickering to himself.  
“Look, buddy.” The girl said, turning to look at Dean over her shoulder. “I’m trying to talk to my friend here. So keep your dick in your pants, and wait your turn.” She turned her attention back to the waitress and continued to chatter away.  
Dean grinned as, unbelievably, the tightness in his pants got tighter. He’d never had a girl talk to him like that before. Usually they were all doe-eyes and fluttering lashes around him. But not this one….  
“How’d you do, Tara?” Someone called from behind.  
Tara turned back around, revealing the front of her shirt—Ramones, Dean liked the Ramones, and he got a better look at her face. God she was gorgeous. Were those blue bangs peeking out from under her helmet? Her eye-makeup was dark and a little smeared, he assumed she just came back from something physical if she were on roller skates and all padded-up. Her lips were painting an obnoxiously bright red. She had a small hoop hanging out of her nose and another in the center of her bottom lip. Dean had never kissed a girl with shit in her face before.  
Tara skated off toward the table of young punks, chattering with a few of the girls. Dean watched her ass as she went. Jesus those thighs were luscious.  
“She’s on the Cherry Poppers.” The waitress said from behind Dean. He turned around and looked at her.  
“The what?” Dean asked, making a face somewhere between a scowl and a smirk.  
“The Cherry Poppers. They’re a Roller Derby team. Actually, they’re pretty good. Tara’s on the team.”  
A derby girl, Dean thought, looking into his empty glass. I’m going to try to get with a derby girl. He smiled and Dawn refilled his glass with whiskey. 

A few hours later Tara was on the move, and so was Dean. He settled his tab, trying not to seem in a hurry, but dammit his one-night-stand was going out the door. He left a tip for Dawn and thanked her for her help. Then he went out the door of the bar, searching for his derby girl. Fortunately, he didn’t have to look too far.  
About half a block up the road, there she was, standing in the street light with her helmet off. Her hair was blue. Like, really blue. Dean made his way to her, trying not to seem like a weird rapist—how does a guy give off that kind of vibe?  
“Hey.” He called, when he was only 10 or 15 feet away from her. “Tire trouble?”  
Tara looked up. “Oh. You again.” Ouch. “Yeah. It’s my damn bearing. God, just got these fucking things replaced, too.” She said, looking down at her skate. “I’ll just have to hoof it home.” She said, more to herself then Dean. She shimmied her backpack off and produced a pair of hot-pink boots, then she started taking her skates off.  
“You’re a big fan of pink, huh?” Smooth. Real fucking smooth. Why not tell her that you love cheeseburgers while you’re at it, he thought.  
“You’re a big fan of talking to random chicks from bars, huh?” She retorted, not looking up.  
Dean grinned. He really liked this girl.  
“What’s the matter, daddy issues?” She mocked, tying her boots.  
“Don’t have a dad.” Dean said flatly, just stating a fact  
“That makes two of us.” She said, swinging her backpack back on. Hello! This was getting mushy, fast. She never once looked up at Dean. Why did that make him feel a little sad?  
“Well, nice chatting with you. Thanks for not raping me.” She said. She gave him a salute and spun on her boots—she was surprisingly graceful in those chunky things-- and started to walk away.  
“Wait!” Dean sputtered. He was never this discombobulated. What the hell was with him? “Hold on a sec, Tara.”  
She stopped and turned back around. “What, creepy guy from the bar?” She said, smiling.  
“…I can drive you.” He tried, taking a step toward her.  
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” She frowned. “Hold on.”  
She took her pack off one more time and produced a piece of paper. Well, at least he’d be getting a phone number. But she didn’t write anything on it. Instead, she crumpled it up, and crushed it into his hand. Then she pressed her lips up against Dean’s. It sent shock waves of sensation directly to his dick. She kissed him hard, nipping at his bottom lip. Jesus, she tasted fucking delicious. Dean didn’t want her to stop. He wanted to pick her up and take her to his motel room and--Then just as quickly as it started, it was over. She nodded in satisfaction, then turned once more and headed down the dark street, leaving Dean Winchester wide-eyed and with a raging hard-on.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sammy, stage right!” Dean shouts, reloading the shotgun with salt rounds and ducking as a rusty old tea kettle is chucked at his head by the angry spirit—really? Now we’re throwing things? He thinks.  
Sam quickly whipped around and swung at the ghost with the iron golf club they had found in the attic. It pushes through the screeching woman like butter as she dissolves. They stand together, backs to each other, circling the room.  
“Dammit, where’d she go?” Dean growls, his trusty shot gun raised, ready to attack.  
“She probably got a little pissed when I hit her with a golf club.” Sam said, snarking at Dean for the hundredth time during the hunt. He was being such a little bitch lately, and Dean couldn’t figure out why. So what if he had been talking nonstop about a girl from a bar a week ago? She was interesting. It couldn’t have been all that bad, right?   
Dean squinted into the darkness, waving his flashlight around wildly. Why the hell did they always get into these situations in the dark? “C’mon out, sweetheart.” He called into the cluttered room. “You may have eternity, but I sure don’t.”   
Suddenly Dean heard a weird noise coming from the other side of the house—and was that…music playing? In a flurry of motion and confusion, something whizzed past the beam of Dean’s flashlight. He shot into the room. “What the hell was that.?” He yelled to Sam. “Do you hear music?” The familiar sound of skates on the ground filled Dean’s ears, as well as distorted music coming from…somewhere. All at once the wailing bitch showed herself, howling. But something was different. She wasn’t as clear as she had been before, she seemed…distorted. Dean shot at her, the salt round going through her and causing her to disappear, but he knew she’d pop back up in a matter of seconds. Sure enough, she did—with her hand in Sam’s chest. Dammit. Dean aimed at her, trying to get her away from Sammy, but he was distracted. The distorted music was back and so was—where those pink elbow pads he just saw?   
“Dean!” Sam choked, doubled over in pain while the phantom squeezed something in his chest. “Little help, here!”  
“Beat it, skank.” A female voice called. There was Tara, standing in the doorway holding something in her hand—was it a bracelet? She had a flashlight duct-taped to her helmet—probably hot pink duct-tape, Dean thought with a grin—and a mischievous smile on her face. God she was sexy. She held her lighter up to the bracelet and set it on fire, dropping it to the ground before it licked her fingers. The spirit let go of Sam and wailed, bursting into flame. Within 30 seconds it was all over. Sammy on the floor, gasping, Dean standing a few feet away from him, mouth gaping. The music was still playing—where the hell was it coming from?  
Dean’s question was quickly answered as Tara skated closer, holding an arm out to Sam. The music got louder—it was coming from her. Dean closed his eyes, concentrating on the song. It was a punk version of Ring of Fire. Dean had never been particularly interested in anything other than classic rock, but he suddenly had the urge to find that song and listen to it over and over again until he couldn’t stand it anymore….  
“C’mon, dude. Don’t be shy.” Tara said to Sam, pulling Dean out of his thoughts.   
Sam grabbed her hand and Dean felt a twinge of jealousy. She pulled Sam up and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle. Even with her skates on, she only came up to about his chest.   
“Um, thanks.” Sam said.   
“For saving your ass?” She said, skating a little circle around him. “No problem, kiddo.” She brushed some dust off of Sam’s shoulder, then turned to Dean. “Hey! I know you!”  
Dean felt something tighten in his stomach—she remembered him. What was this a chick flick? Keep it together, Winchester.   
“Creepy bar guy!” She exclaimed, smiling. “You totally wanted to stick it in me the other day, right?”  
Dean felt his face grow hot as his brother coughed out a laugh. What the hell was going on? He never got embarrassed in front of chicks! Thank god they were standing in the dark. Not only were his checks getting red, but he was currently sitting at half-mast.  
“Um, sorry—“ Dean started, rubbing his neck. But Sam interrupted him.  
“This is Tara?” He asked to Dean, giving him a look that said, ‘dude! So not your type’.  
“Awe, you talked about me to your side-kick!” She cooed, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder.   
“He did! Like, practically non-stop since he got home a few days ago. I’m Sam, by the way. And I’m not his sidekick. We’re brothers.” And he was about to be killed by his older brother in 5…4…3…  
She held out a hand. “I’m Tara. Nice to meet you. Let’s get the hell outta here.” She skated ahead of the boys, lighting the path through the hallway and to the door for them. As soon as she was far enough away not to hear anything, Dean slugged his brother.  
“Ow! What the hell!” Sam said, rubbing his shoulder and glaring a massive bitch face at Dean.   
“Thanks a lot!” Dean hissed and walked ahead of them, following the music.   
He found Tara outside on the porch, staring up at the stars through the broken slats. Even in the dark, he could make out her gorgeous curves. She wasn’t rail-thin like most of the girls Dean lusted after and he loved it. She had a little bit of a muffin top and an amazingly sexy round ass. God he wanted to spank that ass….  
I fell in to a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down and the flames, they got higher.  
Upon hearing his boots creak across the old porch, Tara looked over her shoulder at him, a contented smile spreading across her face, like she was happy to see him. God, Dean wanted to see that smile every day, waking up next to her with all of their clothes off and—holy shit. What was going on here? Dean never thought about mushy stuff like that, it directly violated his ‘no chick-flick moments’ policy.   
Tara turned her face back up to the stars and closed her eyes, letting out a contented sigh. She looked absolutely blissful. But Dean did not. In fact, he was all hot and bothered with a weird half-erection in his pants, and a pain in his chest that he thought might be the impending heart attack everyone was warning him about. But in the back of his mind, Dean knew. He knew that he had just fallen in love with a girl who wore roller skates and leopard hot pants and had blue hair and totally kicked ass. It scared him shitless, and Dean Winchester wasn’t afraid of anything.   
And it burns, burns, burns. The ring of fire.   
The ring of fire.


End file.
